The only other human he gave a damn about is gone.
Grandad was an asshole.
Strong opinions about what a boy should or shouldn’t be.
He sneered at my softness, made fun of my tears.
Anything that he considered weak.
Liking other boys for instance.
As more than friends.
I dare not tell a soul. Not even mum.
???
The harsh cry of a crow breaks the silence, my attention returning to the fuel pump.
“No, not yet,” I plead. “Shut up, you tosser.”
Crows mean dawn. And dawn means sunlight.
I don’t have long.
So I pray for a bloody miracle.
Because trying to convince someone to give me a ride will be much easier while they’re stopped here than if they’re speeding past me on the highway at a hundred k's.
I press my palm against the tree bark until it hurts.
I think about my father’s tattoos, dark ink wrapped over muscle and sunburnt skin.
Snakes. Skulls. Monsters that seem to move when he’s angry.
Ray Watford, the tough guy.
The dishevelled town handyman who drinks all his money away.
Not many other options for people to choose from this far from civilisation.
He does sloppy repairs for people who pay in cash or beer.
None of that dough lasts long.
Never enough for a car, and certainly not enough for boarding school.
Just enough to keep a drink in his hand, and a pile of coins for the pub pokies.
My mother loves me in her own way.
That’s the hardest part.
That's what has kept me from leaving sooner.
She’s kind in small, discreet ways.
A hug when my father isn’t looking.
